From Chapter 3 – A Lie is a Wish Your Heart Makes – in “Selling the Truth: A ‘Semoir’ with Insights for Life and Business” by Hersh Rephun
Don’t Lie to Yourself, Like Yourself
I just shared some thoughts on free will versus destiny, so now I’d like to touch on personality and identity, which are tied up in the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves.
We explode into this world with a lot of “stuff ” in our DNA. Our genes, our transgenerational “baggage,” the reality that we may feel some kinda way about things right out of the gate. These are all a big part of the truth puzzle. What we do with this stuff is up to us. And fearing it gets us nowhere.
Let me tell you a story about two guys who one night came up against their identities and the fear of facing them.
Around 2012, during my “second wave” of standup, a bunch of fellow comedian friends and I were finishing a show at the HaHa in North Hollywood and decided to venture deep into the San Fernando Valley to catch a late-night open mic. The sprawling sports bar was packed, even at 1 a.m., and the sign-up list wasn’t even that long. Good intel! We signed up and hit the bar.
The makeshift stage was a mic stand in the dead center of the room. Comedy in the round. Awesome! The young comic onstage wasn’t doing particularly well, but that’s what open mics are for. He was getting heckled. Good for him!
As we surveyed the crowd, we noticed the heckling was coming from a couple of skinheads.
Being Jewish, my eye can usually pick up a swastika in the room. The first one I noticed was on a small and wiry guy—it was easy to spot because it was on his face.
Upon broader inspection, there was a lot of leather and chain link amidst this sea of rowdy patrons, several others also sported similar skinhead artwork.
For our part, we were a diverse group of comedians to begin with, but only now did we appreciate how different we were from most of the crowd. The neo-heckler with the prominent swastika was especially drunk. I think most of us were pretty buzzed, but he was crossing over, going a little dark, cursing at the comic, who ended his set and left the stage. Someone in our group suggested we leave before one of our names was called. Just then, I heard “HERSH!”
Having a name like Hersh is akin to wearing the Jewish skull cap, known as the “yarmulka.” The heckler’s eyes opened wide, and he smiled wickedly. I had that feeling you get when staring at a rabid, vicious dog: if I run, it will smell fear and attack. Bar shows are tough to begin with. People are not necessarily there for the comedy, so they are loud in the best of circumstances.
I had a decent amount of material at that juncture, and I could have done a universal bit about drinking or something, and I’m pretty sure no one would have even heard it. I could have opted for my signature “Scarface as a Comedian” bit, but that had nothing to do with the energy in the room, which was weird. I definitely got the sense that little wild-eyes was on the prowl, so going low key was not the play. And as I mentioned, this bar was big and packed. A collective response was called for.
I made a decision. I chose a bit that had been hit and miss but felt right for the moment. I took the mic and held up three fingers, calling on my resonant voice to make sure the whole room heard me.
“THERE ARE THREE RULES OF ISRAELI COMEDY!”
I shouted in an unmistakable foreign accent. The room settled down. Neo-heckler looked at his buddy in disbelief. His pal, big and more docile than his friend, cocked his head.
“RULE NUMBER ONE: IT’S SHUT THE F%&* UP TIME!”
I think I heard laughter. I don’t know what I saw because I wasn’t making eye contact. Yet.
“RULE NUMBER TWO: SAME AS RULE NUMBER ONE. BUT IF YOU NOT SHUTTING THE F%&* UP, IT’S GONNA BE PROBLEM. I GIVE YOU A SOCIAL MEDIA ANALOGY…” I said, making my accent even thicker.
This is where I looked wiry neo-heckler-Nazi in the eyes. There was only air between him at the bar, and me, maybe a couple yards away at the mic.
“IF YOU NOT GONNA STAY OUT OF MYSPACE, I’M GONNA F%&* UP YOUR FACEBOOK!” I lifted my eyes up to the big buddy and smiled.
“What’s Rule #3?” mini-Nazi shouted.
To my fellow comics’ credit, none of them had left by this point.
“LEMME TELL YOU, JACK—YOU DON’T EVEN WANNA HEAR RULE #3!”
Wiry, drunk, neo-Nazi-heckler burst out laughing and strode right up to me, throwing his arm around my shoulder, handing me his beer. “I love this guy!” he exclaimed.
I took the beer and nodded my thanks, taking a sip.
It was a surreal moment, and I knew this was the best we were gonna get. The next comic was called up. It was probably one of our group, but we’d just won the survival lottery, and we were not gonna hang around to feed the slots. Big bear skinhead called his little friend back to the bar, and I rejoined my buddies, exiting in a jovial mood as we might after any good set.
In retrospect, a few things worked in my favor: First, my small size ran counter to the imposing character I was playing, creating a comedic visual paradox. Second, the bigger dude and I connected in that one moment when I smiled at him, both of us knowing we were managing his powder keg of a drunk friend. And lastly, I addressed the tension, but not at the expense of the neo-wiener schnitzel. I was bold enough to go up, earning some points in the room.
But what I think really happened is that a couple of guys with seemingly conflicting identities, who could have caved to fear tactics, instead brushed up against one another and directed an alternative outcome. See, I don’t know why mini-nazi had a swastika on his face. I don’t know what his chunk of DNA contains. In fact, for all I know this kid was Jewish (I’ve known people born into the Jewish faith who resent the enmity often directed at them and thus adopt an antisemitic position as something of a survival mechanism).
What I think happened in that bar was that I was bold in making a joke out of the very idea of “toughness” and “macho,” and ass-kicking in general. And I did not do it at anyone’s expense. So, while I don’t know the inner story of mini-Nazi, I know mine. And I gave the two of us an out, based on what we had in common: that little guys act tough to survive, and we look silly doing it.
There was no lying in that moment. We decided fearlessly to like ourselves, and even each other… for a moment.
I hope you enjoyed this snippet of my book! You can get on the pre-order list HERE.